


when the smoke does finally pass

by theshoutingslytherin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Domesticity, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Married Couple, Tenderness, Unabashed Domestic Fluff, as a treat, au where jonmartin can have nice things, i can have a little angst in my fluff fic, jonny sims do not interact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:35:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25066282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshoutingslytherin/pseuds/theshoutingslytherin
Summary: It's about half-past two when Jon's voice floats from the living room he's made camp in, plaintive and just this side of imperious:"Whereis my husband?"Martin sets down his plate with a mindfulclink."Yourhusband,"he calls over the babble of running water, "is in the middle of washing up."As if he hadn't heard, Jon's voice comes again, playful insistence wrapping strings around Martin's heart and tugging."Wherecould my husbandpossiblybe?"
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 25
Kudos: 388





	when the smoke does finally pass

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](https://radiosandrecordings.tumblr.com/post/622676988915793920/i-think-married-jonmartin-would-be-insufferably) textpost by radiosandrecordings on tumblr. It's 4am i am so fucking tired please take this from my terrible little hands.
> 
> title lifted from We Found Each Other in the Dark by City and Colour, as per routine.

It's about half-past two when Jon's voice floats from the living room he's made camp in, plaintive and just this side of imperious: _"Where_ is my husband?"

Martin pauses in the act of drying a plate, heart hiccuping in his chest. The grin curls his mouth unbidden, chases the warmth bubbling up between his ribs; kicks a giddy laugh from his throat. Christ, three months in and he still reacts like it's the day they said their vows. He's an absolute _goner._

Not that that's news. Martin's been a goner from the start, hands wringing his jumper and heart pounding in his teeth as he introduced himself. That first offer of tea had been as much about distraction as it had been ingratiation-- so _sue_ him, his boss was hot! It'd done nothing to settle his pulse, and even though Jon had accepted the cup on his desk without so much as a glance in Martin's direction, that brief interaction had more or less sealed his fate.

Martin sets down his plate with a mindful _clink._ "Your _husband,"_ he calls over the babble of running water, "is in the middle of washing up."

As if he hadn't heard, Jon's voice comes again, playful insistence wrapping strings around Martin's heart and tugging. _"Where_ could my husband _possibly_ be?"

Call and response. Martin laughs again and shuts off the water, steam rising in curling plumes toward the ceiling. "Okay, okay, I'm coming."

Jon's still curled up on the sofa where Martin had left him, two fingers holding his place in the book he'd buried himself in after lunch. He must've put his hair up at some point; it piles in a messy bun at the back of his skull, thin strands of grey and black falling to frame his face. A rare beam of sunshine paints the side of his cheek gold.

He's unfairly beautiful like this, and Martin wipes his fingers on the side of his trousers as he sinks into the couch next to him.

_"There_ you are." Jon's eyes are glittering as he dog-ears his page and sets the book aside. Those slender fingers-- academic's hands, Martin's always thought-- come to rest on either side of his jaw, two dark thumbs sweeping over the corner of his eyelids. Jon pulls him into a kiss, soft and lingering; tingles of barely-there sensation that leave Martin breathless.

"Here I am," he agrees when they part. "I'm not late for something, am I?"

"I'd say you're right on time." Jon squirms until he's pressed up against Martin's side, head pillowed on his shoulder. "It's nice to see you."

"You saw me fifteen minutes ago, Jon."

"That was fifteen minutes too long," Jon says with a dignified sniff.

Fond warmth wreaths under Martin's sternum. "You know, I'm never going to get anything done if you keep calling me into the room every quarter hour," he says, faux-stern.

Jon hums noncommitally.

"Jon."

"The dishes are inanimate and can't appreciate you the way I do."

Martin giggles; can't help it with the way discontentment winds through Jon's voice. "Alright, that's fair."

"You're not married to them, either." If possible, Jon's voice gets sulkier.

"Also true." Martin squeezes Jon a little closer. He makes a show of thinking about it, tapping his chin and miming the toneless hum Jon had made earlier. "I guess I can leave them for later," he concedes after the moment threatens to stretch past the point of teasing. "I could use a bit of a lie-down anyway."

"Glad you could see it my way." Jon wriggles out from under his arm to snatch his book, then settles back into Martin's side. His eyes are openly adoring when he looks up-- this close, Martin can make out every swirl of colour in them, burnished copper in the thin, dusty rays swooping in from the open window. There's that fleck of amber in his left iris, the one Martin had discovered the first time they kissed. It'd glinted at him when Jon's lashes fluttered open, a point of light burning through the surrounding stroma.

Martin kisses him again for good measure. "Come here," he says, shifting to tuck a pillow between the couch arm and his back. He snags the afghan Georgie had knitted for their wedding gift as an afterthought, woolly fibres looping between his fingers.

"Thought you'd never ask." Jon settles onto his chest, slotting his head under Martin's chin in a dance they've negotiated a thousand times now. He's a firm line of heat against him, the bony elbow of his right arm digging into Martin's solar plexus as he worms his way into something approaching a comfortable position. When Martin drapes the afghan over them both, his entire body melts into a sigh.

"Oh, I see how it is," Martin accuses his husband's hair with a stupid, besotted grin. "You just love me because I'm your pillow."

_"Not_ true." Jon twists to face him, brows pulled low over his eyes. His expression is very solemn. "I also love you for your tea."

Martin's laugh hooks him right in the belly, punched from his esophagus to pour honey-bright into the open air. God, he loves him. He's not sure how _this_ much love can fit into something as tiny and fragile as his own too-human heart, but it does. _God,_ it does.

Jon's eyes soften. "I love making you laugh like that." A hint of humor traces the curve of his lips. "Incidentally, I also love being married to you."

_Three months._ "It's kind of incredible," Martin says after his chest has stopped jolting with little chuckles. "It-- if you'd said I'd be married to _Jonathan Sims_ back when we first started working together, I think I would've died on the spot. Just combusted. Wouldn't have believed it for a second."

"Jonathan _Blackwood,"_ Jon corrects him, prim. But his cheek lands on Martin's chest again, silvery hair tickling the edge of Martin's chin. "But you're right. I--"

He breaks off, breathes in deep, the way he always does when he's trying to put hours of racing thoughts into words. Martin waits him out with a patience born from years of practice and experience and cohabitation.

"Marrying you," Jon says finally, low and reverent, "is-- I never thought I'd have this. Never even dared to hope we'd get the chance. So the fact that, that I _have,_ that we _did..._ it's. It's--"

"You don't have to say your vows again, Jon," Martin says gently. "I love you too."

Jon makes a sound like an affronted cat. "Martin I was trying to have a _moment."_

"Sorry! Sorry, please continue."

Jon glares at him another second before letting out a gusty sigh. _"As_ I was saying-- it's... you're right. It is incredible." A thoughtful note enters his voice. "And I suppose I'm... there's some part of me still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For-- for the Fears to reappear, or for my--"

"Oh, Jon--"

"-- my powers to come back," Jon bulldozes right over him. "So I-I treasure this." When he turns his gaze back over to Martin, it's glazed with painful sincerity. "Every second of it. So I-- thank you. For being here. With me."

Martin sucks in a sharp little breath.

How many nights had he spent turning over that possibility, that they'd never live to see themselves grow old? That their fragile time together would shatter, leave nothing but the ache and echo of a few hard-won weeks? Loving and losing had, for some time, been synonymous with each other. There are fissures in the marrow of his bones where that uncertainty still sits, dark and poisonous, leaking out into his bloodstream.

They're so goddamn lucky to have this.

He waits to speak until the lump in his throat eases, until he's sure the wobble in his voice is back under control. "Yeah. Yeah, me-- me too. I'm glad you're here. I'm glad we're _both_ here." Martin studies the angles of Jon's profile. Memorizes the tilt of his nose, the fathomless pit of his eyes, each line and scar and curve like he's preparing for a test on which his life hangs on. "I really do love you, you know."

Jon props himself up, fitting scar-slicked skin against the curve of Martin's cheek. Stretches the elegant column of his neck until his mouth tilts into his, chapped lips catching the bottom of Martin's cupid's bow and chasing it with the edge of his tongue. Exhales in measured rhythm where his nose presses solid into Martin's cheek.

Martin gives as good as he gets; slides a palm to cup the back of Jon's neck, tangling his fingers into the messy bun and parting his lips with a sigh. All the tension drains out of him, leaving him boneless where he's draped over the cushions. They're here. They're _married._ They've made it.

When they part, Jon moves to shift a stray curl away from Martin's forehead. The lines of his face are impossibly tender.

"I do," he says, thrumming with the same promise he made three months ago, and the vow of countless more years to come.

They don't need to say anything else. Martin settles back into the couch, Jon curled cat-like on top of him. Traces the play of sunlight over his husband's scalp, running an idle hand across the small of Jon's back. Every few minutes, Jon interrupts his own reading to narrate something of interest to him, and each time Martin's heart squeezes, choked full with a love that can only grow, deep inside his chest.

The dishes wait for another day.

**Author's Note:**

> You can pry the headcanon that Jon would take Martin's last name from my cold dead fingers. I'm fucking cryign cat dot emoji over here don't,, fuckgn look at me,,, ;;;;;
> 
> I changed my writing blog's url from hashbrownwrites to [definitelynotshouting](definitelynotshouting.tumblr.com), if anyone wants to come chat! Thanks for reading ily all.


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